He would have laughed aloud, had he realised that his guest was indeed more interested in his son than she was prepared to admit, even to herself. The photographs captivated her. She made certain that Lionel Pomfret was utterly different from the young men who frequented her own house. She recognised in him the preux chevalier. With such parents could he be anything else? Leaping to quite unjustifiable conclusions, she decided, also, that this only son must have taken from father and mother what was best in each. Perhaps, for the first time in her variegated life, she became romantic. Nobody, as yet, had whetted her imagination.
If Sir Geoffrey had divined all this!
Presently, when many of Prudence’s fancy cakes had been eaten, Sir Geoffrey led his guest to the farther window.
“Do you see anything familiar?” he asked.
“Of course. How exciting! Our coat. Have our families intermarried?”
“In 1625, when Charles the First ascended his throne.”
“I must look that up.”
“We will do so together.”
Upon the following Monday morning she whirled away, leaving a gap behind her. Sir Geoffrey waxed a thought too enthusiastic. Lady Pomfret admitted her intelligence and good-breeding.
“Mary, you are lukewarm.”